Sherlock one shots
by karinamarie18
Summary: These are a few short stories I have put together. They don't follow any certain story line. I really hope you enjoy them. Sherlolly xx. Please let me know what you think!
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock looked up from his microscope long enough to notice Molly backing into the lab, arms full of boxes, and just as quickly, he went back to his specimen. John glared at his flatmate for a moment at his lack of courtesy, then found it useless and went to help the pathologist with her burden.

"Oh, thank you, John," she said, slightly winded. The two carried the boxes to the storage closet and set them on an empty shelf. "Thanks, again," Molly smiled.

John returned the gesture, "No problem. Look, I have to get going. It was nice seeing you for a bit." In a lower tone, "Watch out for him, will you? He seems a bit strange…er." She nodded, looking to the detective for a second, then to the floor. John started towards the door, calling behind him a farewell to his friend, which was returned with silence. The door shut behind him and he made his way out of the hospital.

Molly shuffled around the lab, rearranging things Sherlock had disorganized during the frantic experiment he was on this morning. Under his breath, she heard him say, "John, can you hand me that phenolphthalein? It's in the third pipet from the end." She looked around the lab benches and found a row of seven pipets, all filled with different chemicals. She found the one he asked for and handed it to him. He looked up for a brief second and a look of surprise showed on his face for just a moment.

"Molly. Where did John go?" He was back to his microscope.

"He, uh, he had to go. He said goodbye."

"Oh. Well, uh, thanks." And just like that, he was silent yet again.

· ·

After Molly packed up for the night, she walked over to Sherlock, who was still engrossed in the slide on his microscope.

"Is there anything you need? Before I leave?" She asked sheepishly. She was answered with his undisturbed silence. After a long pause, she added, "Alright then. Good night, Sherlock," and she walked out of the door, not pausing at all.

"Good night, Molly," Sherlock added quietly once he knew she was gone.

· ·

Sherlock arrived at 221B Baker Street a little after one in the morning. He made his way toward his bedroom quietly and was surprised to find John sitting in a lounging chair, waiting up for him.

"John. What are you still doing up?"

"Waiting for you to come home. What took you so long?" John sounded angry.

"Working. Why are you waiting for me? Something bad has happened. You are distressed." John chuckled humorlessly.

"Something bad has happened? That is your clever deduction, is it? In case you were wondering, yes, something bad has happened. Very bad. It's Molly." John's voice was beginning to shake. Sherlock felt his breath hitch in his throat.

"What has happened, John? What has happened to her?" Sherlock tried to calm his voice but his friend could tell he was worried about her.

"She was—she was walking home tonight and got hit…hit by a car. The police don't know who was driving. They found the abandoned car two blocks from the accident. It was stolen. Lestrade says they may never find the driver, but the best police are working on it."

"John, I don't care about the car. How. Is. Molly?!" Sherlock's reaction surprised John.

"She's not good, Sherlock. She's in the hospital. I went to visit her around ten. It's bad."

"I want to see her." His statement was so stern.

"Sherlock. It is almost two in the morning. The hospital won't let visitors this late."

"John, shut up. I need to see her." And with that, he was back out the door, and hailing a taxi. John caught up with him just in time to make the same cab and climbed into the car.

"St. Bart's Hospital, please," John told the cabbie.

"And step on it," Holmes added, coldly. He was silent the entire ride, ignoring all of John's attempts at a conversation. When they arrived at the hospital, Sherlock bolted out of the cab, leaving John to pay the fare. When he caught up with the taller man again, he was already arguing with a nurse about going in to see Molly.

"Sir, Miss Hooper is sleeping. I will not allow her to be disturbed at this ungodly hour," the nurse was saying.

"Um, excuse me, Nurse…?" Sherlock started.

"Hathaway," she stated, matter-of-factly.

"Miss Hathaway. Where is it your place to intervene with a police investigation?" John stood back, surprised Sherlock was going this route just to see Molly tonight, instead of waiting till morning.

"Are you an officer? Most officers would show their badge," Nurse Hathaway added wittedly. Sure enough, Sherlock pulled out DI Lestrade's badge and flashed it in the nurse's face. Defeated by that path, she tried a different approach. "What is a detective inspector doing on a case this late?"

"Obviously finding out the facts," Sherlock spitted, clearly annoyed, and he brushed past the nurse and started towards the patient hallway, with John right beside him. The nurse stood still, knowingly defeated.

When Sherlock turned into Molly's room, John finally spoke up, "How, exactly, do you know what room is hers?"

"I looked on the nurse's clipboard. Since she is clearly the charge nurse, she would have information on all patients. Hooper, Molly. 3029." Sherlock looked into the room, finding Molly's disfigured form lying on a hospital bed. He knew he was going to be upset by this visit so he asked John to give him a minute. After a pause, John respected his friend's wish and left the room.

Sherlock walked over to her bedside and sat down in a visitor chair that was already turned towards her. Sitting perfectly still, he observed her injuries. Bruise on her left eye, with a cut above the eyebrow. Red, puffy lips. Her shoulder was wrapped after realignment. A brace on her right wrist. The blanket covered the rest of her except for her left leg, which was wrapped in a white cast that contained a few signatures already. John Watson. Greg Lestrade. Elizabeth McCully, a radiologist on the 6th floor. Sherlock found a black pen on the nightstand and wrote two scratchy letters, 'SH.'

Returning the pen, he moved his chair closer to the bed. He looked at her hand, so pale, so still, and took it in his own, feeling the cold temperature of her skin. He closed his eyes and listened to the heart monitor.

"Oh, Molly Hooper. Why were you not careful?" He spoke quietly. Smiling smugly, he continued, "You are always so reckless, so fragile," and for his own amusement, "so awake."

He heard her giggle, a little hoarsely. "How could you tell?" she croaked quietly.

"Breathing patterns, heartbeat; not that hard to figure out." He tightened his grip on her hand, reminding her that it was there. She looked down at their hands as he looked at her swollen face. _Still beautiful._

"Um, Sherlock?" she said, breaking the silence. "Why are you—"

"I needed to make sure you were alright…" he said quietly, leaning closer to her. He went to give her a light kiss on her cheek just as she looked at him, causing their lips to meet. They both stayed still, awkward for a second, before deepening the kiss, making it more passionate. When they broke apart, Sherlock whispered, "What would I do if something were to happen to you?"

"Ahem!" John cleared his throat, standing in the doorway to the room with a cup of coffee for his friend in hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Alright. I know it has been a while since I updated. Apologies. I don't have internet at home right now. But I moved off to college, which has wifi! So. Hopefully I can update between classes.**

**Also, thank you all for the follows and reviews. I greatly appreciate it. This next story has more of an implied Sherlolly base at the end, rather than directly shown. Hope you like it **

Sherlock lied on the couch, with his hands held up under his chin, his eyes closed. He vaguely heard John bustling about the flat, picking up the mess the detective had left in his last fit of boredom. The doctor grumbled under his breath about the audacity his flat mate had, making such a mess and doing nothing to help clean it. Sherlock ignored this, entering his mind palace at last.

John spoke to his flat mate, trying to get him to respond. Sherlock had been silent, unmoving, for over thirteen hours and his friend was beginning to worry.

"Sherlock! You have to get up. Enough with this." After attempting to move the detective for a half an hour, John was at his wits end. Mrs. Hudson was out visiting her friends; Lestrade had turned off his mobile. There was only one person left he could think of; Molly Hooper. John picked up his phone and dialed the familiar number to the morgue.

"Molly Hopper," she answered in her professional voice. John could hear the clanking of her putting her instruments back on the other end.

"Thank god. Molly," his voice was stressful. "I need you. How soon can you come over?"

There was a quick knock on the living room door. John had told Molly to ignore the doorbell and just walk on up.

"Come in!" he yelled.

She peeked her head in the door, nervous of what she would find. Sherlock was laying on the couch, like she had often seen; John was pacing the living room, deep in thought.

"John? What is going on?"

John pointed to Sherlock, not saying a word.

"How long has he been like this?"

"Since 4 yesterday afternoon," he looked at his watch. "Now fourteen and a half hours ago. I—I know he said he does this, but he hasn't moved. The longest he has ever been like this is at most, four hours. I don't know what to do." John was beginning to become overly worried. Molly walked over to him and put her hands on both shoulders, holding him still, looking at him seriously.

"Relax. You can't help if you too become incapacitated. You need to calm down so we can think about what to do." Her words calmed him down slightly already. He nodded.

After two more hours, the two came to the decision to leave Sherlock be, but not to leave him alone, until he came to. When morning came, John needed to go to work. Molly decided to stay at 221B and call in sick to work. She was now looking for something to do with herself in the flat. She decided to cook a nice meal for the doctor, medium rare steak, baked potatoes, and broccoli. As she poured the water for the broccoli, she heard a stirring in the living room.

Sherlock sat up in the other room, and looked around, noticing it was daylight outside. "Molly?" he spoke up. She peered around the corner at the detective. "How long? 8?"

"Try 23." The pathologist walked over to the detective, looking him over. He seemed alright.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" he asked.

"John was worried about you. We decided not to leave you alone until you woke up. He really cares about you, you know." The detective blew off the comment. He made his way to the kitchen, following the smell of a home cooked meal, Molly following close behind. Sherlock quickly turned back around to talk to Molly, not realizing how close they were and they collided. Molly ended up in his arms, one hand awkwardly entangled into his. They remained like that for a while, Molly's heartbeat increasing. She felt heat rushing to her face. Sherlock looked down at her, thinking how pretty she looked. He quickly broke off his thoughts and released her, turning back towards the food. And as quickly and awkwardly the moment had come, it was gone, Molly beginning to wonder if it had actually happened.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello, followers. I want to take this moment to thank you for staying with me, even though I hardly update. I apologize for that. Who knew college would be so time consuming?**

**Anyways, thank you for your reviews. I greatly appreciate the support and interest you take in my writing. I will try to continue satisfying your Sherlock needs as best as I can **

**Read on.**

**Love is an irresistible desire…**

Molly sat on the couch of her flat reading poems from her favorite writer, Robert Frost, when there was a knock on her door. She picked her feet up off the table they were outstretched on and stood up, adjusting her pajamas, which consisted of light pink shorts and a baggy white tank top, before opening the door. Much to her surprise, it was a drenched Sherlock who appeared in her doorway.

"Sherlock? What brings you here?" she asks, concerned,

"I was people watching. Led me here."

"People watching? In this storm? It's pouring!"

"Wonderful observation. Now tell me something useful." He had a fading tone, which Molly now knew he had a question he isn't too keen on asking. After the fall, Sherlock took home in Molly's flat, where he finally began to observe the nature of society. Many things confused him so he relied on Molly's experience in the social world to understand. He often got this tone when he had another question about people.

"What is it?"

"Well, during my walk, I observed many people putting themselves in immediate danger for their mate. Dashing in front of cars, holding tall umbrellas to stay dry. Why do people risk their own health for the benefit of the others happiness?"

"Well. I suppose they don't think about the danger when their lover is on their minds. They think of them and them only. Now, honestly, come inside before a cold catches the death of you." She ushered him inside and ran to fetch him a towel and a dry outfit of his he had left when he moved out again. When she came out of the bedroom with the clothes, she found Sherlock standing in her living room, shirtless, with his long, wet hair dripping onto his chest and stomach, making him look very sexy. She got a strange, fuzzy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Awkward and embarrassed, Molly handed him the clothes and quickly turned around.

"Molly? Are you alright?" he asked, noticing she was discomfited. She nodded, but would not look at her guest. She walked to the kitchen and fixed a pot of tea, keeping herself busy and keeping her mind off the man in the living room.

• • •

After Sherlock was dried and dressed and Molly had control of her previous wave of hormones, they sat on her couch, talking about why people love.

"But it is irrational. Why risk the emotional agony of heartbreak if you can stay unattached and avoid the problem altogether?" He was intensely trying to make sense of the concept, getting nowhere. Molly finally resorted to poetry from a very intelligent man.

"Well, 'Love is an irresistible desire to be—" She was cut off by the man sitting next to her finishing the quote.

"'Irresistibly desired.' Robert Frost." She was surprised.

"I didn't know you read poetry."

"I picked up your book one day while you were out. Some of the writings were very good, indeed." She looked away to sneak a smile, although Sherlock noticed, of course. He leaned closer to her, used his hand to cause her to look at him, and smiled warmly.

"Molly," he said quietly, "I want to irresistibly desire you." Her breath caught in her throat as he gently laced his lips onto hers, deepening the passion with every passing second.

• • •

Molly woke up in her bed, which had extremely messed up sheets, and tried to decide if last night was a dream or if it really happened. She thought of Sherlock's soft lips exploring her own, his hands caressing her body tenderly, the way he really got to know her, inside and out… _'There is no way that really happened…'_ she thought as a note on the pillow next to her caught her eye.

It read, "You are my irresistible desire 3 –SH"


	4. Chapter 4

**Alright guys, this one is a continuation of the first story I posted. I had requests to keep it going and I thought I could make it another cute one. It turned out longer than expected. I really hope you enjoy it **

**Thank you again for the follows and reviews. I love knowing someone is enjoying themselves when they read as much as I enjoy myself when I write. Let me know what you think!**

Molly woke up in a bed that was not hers. She looked around the room and tried to remember where she was, being flooded by memories when she noticed the IV pole and heart monitor. She remembered walking home and getting hit to the ground, the pain was unbearable but the wait was worse. It took the ambulance a good while to arrive, but by that time, Molly had fallen unconscious due to the pain shooting through her body. The last thing she remembers is Sherlock, sitting next to her. Holding her hand. Kissing her…

Thinking of Sherlock, Molly turned her head quickly the other direction, away from the machinery, causing her head to jolt and making her notice the piercing headache she had. At her bedside, there was the man, slouched back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest as he slept. She smiled slightly when the door to the room opened quietly.

John walked into the room with a small bouquet of flowers and a book he brought to read while Molly was out. Molly looked up at the doorway and John stared at her for a moment before smiling. The doctors weren't sure how much damage her brain had taken, but her being awake again was definitely a good sign. After John had caught her and Sherlock in a compromising situation, she fell into unconsciousness shortly after and had not woke up again. It had been about a week now.

Molly smiled again, this time at the sight of the new man in the room. "John," she croaked. He shook his head but held his smile, a way of telling her not to try to speak. She got the hint and just looked at the man, deducing as Sherlock might. His hair was shaggier than usual, there were bags under his eyes, and his clothes were messy and slightly dirty. She guessed the men didn't leave much. Although John had looked bad, Sherlock looked a bit worse, and he wasn't even awake. She sighed a bit in relief and closed her eyes again, knowing she wasn't alone during this ordeal.

• • •

A week after Molly had woken up again, the doctor came in to inform her that she was alright to go home.

"You will still need bed rest, I don't want you to overexert your brain too much, as it may worsen the concussion." Sherlock sat in the corner of the room, taking in every word. He had hardly left the room since Molly woke up. They played board games and talked of what cases Lestrade had come to him with, which he had refused. John had gone back to work, knowing she was in good hands and that his flat mate would not leave her alone for too long, if at all. He came to visit on evenings.

After the doctor left the room to prepare her discharge papers, Sherlock moved closer to Molly's side, but kept his distance. He was about to enter an awkward situation which he was not used to and needed space to keep his thoughts straight, since seeing Molly like this did things to his near-forgotten emotions.

"Molly, I want you to come home with me." He realized how that sounded and quickly tried to ix the situation. "I mean, I want you to come to our flat for a while, until you feel better. So I, I mean, we can take care of you. The doctor did say bed rest."

Molly thought about this, staying in Sherlock's flat while he cared to her every need. She _had_ housed him after the fall. Why couldn't she do this? But her thoughts and her words didn't match.

"I'll be fine at my place. Really."

"It's either you come to my flat or I stay at yours. Either way, I will not make you care for yourself in your condition," he sounded serious, and was not going to take no for an answer.

• • •

Molly walked into the flat with Sherlock by her side, holding her up by the waist. The gesture gave her a tingling sensation but she couldn't focus on that since the pain in her leg was near unbearable. They made it up the stairs and into the living room, making her way to the couch while the man at her side gently eased her down onto the couch.

"You stay here, I'm going to make you something to eat." Before she could refuse, he had retreated into the kitchen and she could hear the clanging of pots and pans as he searched for the right one.

A few moments later, he returned from the kitchen with a serving tray with food on it. He sat it down in front of her and she examined the contents: crème of potato coup, warm chamomile tea, and fresh toast.

She whispered, "My favorite," and put on the brightest smile.

"I remember," was all he said before he retreated again, this time to his room, exiting with a blanket that he gave to her to keep her warm.

• • •

After she ate and was tired, Sherlock helped Molly to his room where she lied down and fell asleep. When she woke up, her and Sherlock talked for hours, like thee did in her flat many months ago. Finally, she brought up what had been eating at her for two weeks now.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"When—are we going to talk about what happened that night? The first time I woke up in the hospital?" He looked down at the floor and his face blushed ever so slightly.

"Well—I—maybe…" It was not often he was found at a loss for words. "The only thing I can say is this: I really enjoy your company, Molly. You are a fine woman and I do not regret accidentally kissing you. I quite enjoyed myself, and by your expression, I believe you did too. And I can also say I do hope there are many more in the near future. You are a mystery to me, the new you. And I do not know what this feeling is, but I hate seeing you injured like this."

Molly's face heated and she found it hard to look him in the eyes. When she finally did look back at him, he has a pleasant smile on his face and he leaned in closer to her, placing the softest and sweetest kiss on her gentle lips. She closed her eyes and relished in the moment, glad it was happening again and this time, she would remember every detail.


End file.
